Along the Straight and Narrow Path
by Lilac Papillon
Summary: In polite regards to August, meeting a stranger and feeling like they are familiar voids the definition of "stranger". There's many explanations for such a perception, but Archie isn't quite sure if any of them, sensible or not, are correct. It doesn't help that August seems to have a good one, yet refuses to let it be disclosed. Puppet's Conscience, mild slash, 15 Prompts
1. Flat Tire

**Along the Straight and Narrow Path**

_**PROMPT 1: **__Flat tire__**  
Word Count: **Approx. 700**  
**__Notes:_ _I know what you're thinking, and let me apologize in advance. But yes, these 15 prompts were all picked at random via a prompt generator + number generator to sort through the 30 I picked; yes, __that is what I'm calling this tiny raft of a ship I'm on (I've debated on this though; Wooden Cricket? Cricket Puppet? Wooden Conscience? Conscience Wood even?); _and yes, I will try and do my best to do justice to it – starting now. Takes place after "The Stranger" and before "A Land Without Magic".

* * *

"Oh, now, come on, I see this sort of thing all the time. You expect me to believe somebody _purposely _let air out of it?"

"Look, Marco, I don't think 'let air out of' is the same as 'completely _shredded the rubber and stole the air plug'."_

The voice was new, as was the person it belonged to, but the psychiatrist could not help but tilt his head and glance at the back of a dark-haired figure wearing a leather jacket, crouched in front of a motorcycle. Something felt off about this unfamiliar presence in the fact that, for whatever reason, it did not feel that unfamiliar at all. There was a huge list of reasons that popped into the man's brain as to explain this, but for whatever reason they didn't seem to click.

Did he, perhaps, know this person?

He saw the older man that stood next to the bike shake his head and wave his hands toward the vehicle. "But you think about it, who would give the time to do something like this to you? Did you make anybody angry?" The man's gaze became distracted from the current problem at hand to the psychiatrist watching them, though, and his expression warmed. "Ah, Archie. Good to see you, as always!"

The corners of his mouth curved automatically, and Archie walked towards his acquaintance. "I can certainly say the same for you, Marco," he responded, before nodding his head towards the stranger and his bike (ignoring how the stranger's posture seemed to lock up; it was most likely a reaction from being pulled out of focus from the flat he was concerned about). "Are you busy today?"

"No, no, not at all. I would actually like you to meet somebody. August, let me introduce you to a very good friend of mine!"

The man had stood up as if on cue and turned on his heels to face Archie, and in that instant Archie could not help but notice how the leather jacket-wearing man with scruff on his face, tousled dark hair on his head, and a purple scarf around his neck resembled Marco. It was almost as though the two were related somehow – though this was impossible; as far as his knowledge went and what Marco had told him, Marco did not have any children, let alone any family left in Storybrooke.

And yet, Marco had rested his hand and given a squeeze to this younger man's shoulder as a father would to a son. "This is my new assistant I have been telling you about. He is new to Storybrooke, but so far, he is very good with fixing things."

The man had chuckled, as though unsure whether he should swell his chest in pride or wave his hand dismissively in embarrassment, before he had looked up towards Archie – blue eyes to blue eyes – and had held out a gloved hand. "August Booth," the man said.

The grasp and handshake was firm as Archie took his hand and gave a nod. "Archie Hopper," he replied. "I've heard many good things about you, Mr. Booth. It's very kind of you, volunteering your time to help Marco around his shop." He gave a playful smirk. "Tell me, where did you find it deep within your heart to help out this old man?"

Despite the scoff that emerged out of Marco's mouth and the smack that landed softly on Archie's arm, August had practically beamed, and for whatever reason it had startled Archie because for one second, he could have _sworn_ he had seen this exact smile a long time ago on a much younger face.

"I just did what my conscience would have told me to do."

* * *

_**Next Three Prompts: **__Iodine, Can of soda, Umbrella _


	2. Iodine

**Along the Straight and Narrow Path**

_**PROMPT 2: **Iodine__**  
Word Count: **__Approx. 950**  
**_**Notes: **_Doctor, I need help. I have this symptom called Write-Angsty-August-itis, and I need more Once Upon A Time to cure it. Wait, what? What the hell do you mean, I'm not getting it until November? _

* * *

"No. No, I told you, I am _not _letting that stuff touch my skin."

Archie had resisted the urge to roll his eyes at August; firstly, it would be rude and unprofessional, and secondly, the gesture would have been childish (though perhaps not as childish as the man was being about _the open, strange-looking flesh wound _he had momentarily glimpsed on his arm before August had rolled his sleeve back down_). _"This is exactly what Marco would have given you if he was in my position right now," the psychiatrist said, turning around with the bottle and a clean cloth.

August's eyes had narrowed in such a way that Archie could not place his finger on it; the look seemed as though it was against an appeal to authority. "With all due respect, you aren't my – Marco."

Archie could not help but frown, noting the slip – whatever was he going to say? – but not minding it as he shook his head. "While I am not him, Mr. Booth, you are injured and I have something that will help the injury." His eyes had given one last glance around his office. "Though I do wish I knew where my first-aid kit went off too; this isn't the best stuff to put on wounds..."

"Okay, then don't put that stuff on my skin." The man seemed very adamant to avoid whatever was in that bottle at all costs as he practically seemed to glare daggers towards it, as though staring at it long enough would shatter the thing. "Aren't you supposed to have medical supplies lying around, _Doctor Hopper?"_

Any hesitance about using iodine on what had been caused August's motorcycle accident dissolved just as swiftly as the cap being removed from the bottle. "This is all I have for now, _Mister Booth," _Archie retorted rather curtly. He pressed the cloth to the mouth of the iodine, tilting the container. "Please try to be a little more mature about this. It'll sting like hell, but you know what they say about things that hurt – they work."

The chuckle that left August's mouth sounded wry and bitter, though Archie paid no heed to it. "You're being unnecessarily difficult, Mr. Booth."

"It's _August," _the younger man snapped, turning his glare directly to Archie. "Quit talking to me like that, Archie."

Archie inhaled more sharply than he wanted to in front of him. "I apologize if you feel like I'm talking down to you, _August, _but if you would try to be reasonable in a matter such at this, perhaps I would not come off as condescending."

He reached for August's sleeve, but not before August grabbed his wrist. Archie could feel his patience thinning by the seconds as he lifted his stare to level August's. "Again, you're making this difficult," he muttered.

"I _don't_ need it."

"At the moment, I think you might. Unless you want to run the risk of getting infected, I strongly insist on you using the iodine!"

"And I appreciate your advice, but I insist that I'd rather not use it."

"I'm starting to think that this is _more _than just a flesh wound to you," Archie said, narrowing his gaze. "Why are you being so defensive about it? You are a grown man, Mr. Booth – "

"Well, then, _why _are you still treating me like I'm a child?" August snapped.

Archie's eyebrows arched – as did August's, though not for the same emotion. And that non-mutual reaction spoke more words than August was probably willing to speak right now. It was as though August had not meant to say that; it was as though it had just slipped out that was not supposed to be spoken.

A dozen diagnostics and assumptions began connecting themselves to what had just happened as Archie tilted his head forward.

"August," the psychiatrist began, treading carefully on unsteady ground. "Is there something that you would like to – "

"I am not using the iodine," August interrupted abruptly, causing Archie's mouth to clamp shut. He nodded at Archie's other occupied hand. "You might want to close that bottle. Iodine tarnishes wood _really _badly; don't want anything getting ruined if it spills. Now, if you'll excuse me, _doctor, _I should probably go and see Marco about my bike. I'll tell him you said hello."

With that, August rose to his feet, just as Archie finished closing the bottle and stepped in front of him. He stood straight, hands in his pockets, lips pursed tightly. "That's going to hurt a lot more than you want it to," Archie said disappointedly.

The wry, bitter chuckle from before resonated again, muffled by the thin, pressed line that was set on August's mouth. The dark-haired man simply brushed by Archie, opened the door to his office, and walked out, limping back to his dented motorcycle across the street –

_Limping?_

And at the realization of his own ignorance, Archie's knees weakened and he found himself sitting down on his own couch, pressing his forehead against his folded hands, and breathing a long, heavy sigh.

* * *

_**Next Three Prompts: **__Can of soda, Umbrella, Flower pot _


	3. Can of Soda

**Along the Straight and Narrow Path**

_**PROMPT 3: **__Can of soda__**  
Word Count: **Approx. 850**  
**__Notes:_ _Some of these prompts are stupidly random to the point where I have to sit and actually think how to work with them. This is the first of those._

* * *

He had ended up running into August the next day at the most obscure place possible within Storybrooke: the vending machine.

There was a very elaborately-spun parody of a folk tale about this sole, particular vending machine. The ghost story could be summed up logically with two words: it sucked (figuratively and literally). Money would be lost forever once it went in, never to be retrieved, and rumor had it nobody found it when the machine would be propped open – nor the occasional drink that would actually make its way out of its placeholder, only to drop and yet never come out.

Once, Emma had wanted something to wash down two energy granola bars she had powered through while trying to figure out the case of Kathryn magically re-appearing. A lost dollar and a good boot to the dispenser later, the _clunk _of a can had thrown Henry and Archie off-track, as well as the _tinks _of a dollar's worth in quarters being refunded. (The woman had thought nothing special of it, saying that it was damn right going to give her back her money and her drink, before picking up the two, swiftly pulling the tab off the soda, and guzzling its contents down.) Ever since that day, it had worked perfectly.

Well, except for those off-days, one of those being today if August was currently crouching and trying to peek inside the machine with a frown.

It was only after a good fifteen seconds that Archie had cleared his throat. August had looked up towards him, not at all the least bit surprised to see the psychiatrist. The bespectacled man had shuffled his feet rather awkwardly, knowing very well that he did not know Marco's assistant well enough to analyze whether or not August was a sensitive person about his limping problem.

Perhaps starting off with casual conversation and then having it segue into an apology would be the smoothest approach.

"That thing sucks," Archie exclaimed.

About as smooth as a crumpled piece of sandpaper. Still, August had scoffed, somewhat amused, before he had stood up. "It really does." Then, he turned his back to Archie.

"Well, it's not your fault, really," Archie had blurted out, taking a step forward, no wanting to further delay a necessary apology. "The town sheriff had a huge problem with it when she tried to get something out of it."

August had stopped even before Archie had finished speaking. He had turned his head to the side, and his eyes focused themselves back on Archie.

"Emma?"

Knowing that perhaps there was more to them in common than knowing Marco was certainly something that settled Archie's nerves, especially when it came to the hard-headed but good-hearted sheriff. He nodded back instantly, happy to see a change of expression from bitterness. "Yes, Emma. Had to kick the thing for it to give her anything."

He watched August's eyes light up, and a laugh leave his mouth as he shook his head, looking off almost whimsically. "That definitely sounds like her." His chest heaved as he gave a sigh, and Archie tried to pin down the tone of it – reminiscent, respectful, _regretful? _It piqued Archie's curiosity; what exactly was his friend Emma's connection with this newcomer?

Before he could continue mulling over it, August had shrugged, looking back towards the machine. "I'd kick it myself, but, you know, I'm a grown man."

Oh, right, there was still that.

Archie stepped forward again, looking sheepishly back towards August. "About yesterday," he began. He forced himself to straighten his posture. "I'd like to apologize for my attitude towards you, Mr. Booth. It was inconsiderate of me as both a professional and a person, and I had no idea that..." His gaze shifted towards August's legs.

August just shrugged, giving a shake of his head again. "Don't worry about it. I should apologize for...a lot of things, actually. But let's start off with my own behavior." He clicked his tongue. "I was being pretty childish. I'm sorry."

"Oh, not at all, I can understand where it came from considering my own ignorance towards your leg."

"You didn't know; really, don't worry about it." A smile crossed August's face. "You know, that doesn't make it any more excusable on my part either; my behavior. When things happen, we can't reverse time and make them un-happen, so we need to make sure we do things right the first time around. Or at least try to." His smile grew. "Plus, I'm sure you had my best interests at mind. You seem like that type of person."

It was a wise thing for August to say, and it almost sounded very familiar to things that Archie would tell the people that came in during his office hours. It prompted a chuckle out of the psychiatrist. "I appreciate that, Mr. Booth. Thank you."

August had arched an eyebrow almost coyly.

"I told you, Archie – it's August."

* * *

_**Next Three Prompts: **__Umbrella, Flower pot, Slug _


	4. Umbrella

**Along the Straight and Narrow Path**

_**PROMPT 4: **Umbrella__**  
Word Count: **Approx. 1,200**  
**__Notes:_ _What's that, more AngstyEmo!August? Why, as you wish! Also, if you want to let me know how I'm doing and give me feedback - please, feel free to leave a review! I get about 100 people looking at my OUAT stories when I post them, and it'd be fantastic to see what a few of you out of that 100 think._

* * *

_Rain._

Of _course_ it would be pouring _rain_ when Marco wanted to do something other than fix things and just have lunch together. It was supposed to be the highlight of August's return back in Storybrooke as his time here dwindled away every second the clock ticked. The thing was that Marco had August's bike back at the Marine Garage; as it turned out when Marco had taken a closer look at it, the damage had been more than a few dents. August had offered to pay whatever he could, but Marco had dismissed it, saying that it was just a few minor tweaks and his bike would be working back to normal once he wasn't busy.

This was why August, in the middle of walking down a street to head there, had simply stood stark still in one spot once he noticed the sun vanish, heard the boom of thunder, and then the skies had dropped.

He had stood there, allowing his leather jacket to be pelted by the rapidly descending droplets of water. The man couldn't help but curse under his breath as he took in a deep, self-controlling breath. How was it that the weather decided that today, of all days and of all times, it was going to storm over Storybrooke?

Was somebody trying to leave Storybrooke? Was this an omen? No, it couldn't be, the Dark One – _ahem, "_Mr. Gold" had made it very clear that there were no magical properties left in the land, contrary to August's assumptions when he returned back to Storybrooke. But something about this weather just felt so terribly out of place; so ominous and misfortunate. Also, Emma...

The day Marco had insisted that August not pay for any quick repairs to his motorcycle was only yesterday. And he had added after saying this, with filial warmth radiating from his smile, that August deserved good things.

_Did he really? _

Thunder clamoured above him again, and he closed his eyes, letting his head droop unenthusiastically and muttered the same expletive he had muttered earlier. He remembered when he had left Storybrooke how much of a habit for cussing he developed that would make the drunken pirates proud (amongst many other things he had done that were not shining role model quality material), and once he had realized what was beginning to happen to him, he had tried to curb the habit.

But his limbs hurt enough already, there was really no point to strive for betterment when there was little hope in recovery; _redemption. _And that woman, that stubborn woman whose disbelief clouded her vision so much, was the only thing that would be able to lead him back on that path – especially when he still woke up every now and again with nightmares of dark forces looming over her crib as she wailed and the _guilt _tore him apart more than the physical pain of reversing back.

That, and the vivid flashbacks of almost being swallowed by terrifying large behemoths that dwelled the seas plagued his dreams. It was precisely why to this day, August had never liked rain. He also never did learn how to swim like his father had wanted him to the moment he became truly mortal. (It was also safe to say his opinion on large creatures of the sea held the same sentiments.) But most of all, he hated this feeling of _uselessness_ that had depressed him ever since his last encounter with the Savior, and tried to make her _see. _

August re-opened his eyes, staring down at his legs, his feet – sometimes, there were brief spells where they just pained _unbearably, _but nothing compared it to the feeling akin of the last flickering candle in a dark room being blown out; hopelessness. Had he failed because of his stupid mistakes? He was _supposed _to protect the Savior, _watch over her, guide her, _and he had failed. He had tried to make up for it, and he had _failed _again.

It almost made him scoff, how pathetically self-piteous he was being. But was there anything really left other than that? Was this how it was going to end? Hell, who would be there for him once it all came to an end? Not that he needed anyone to protect _him, _watch over _him, _guide_ him, _but...

He never did finish that thought when he realized that the cold drops of water were no longer colliding with his skin or soaking his head. Blinking dazedly, August had looked up through damp strands of hair that had fallen over his vision to see a black umbrella over his head, deflecting what Mother Nature was currently tossing down at him.

When he looked next to him, there was Archie, wearing a black coat and a green scarf. Condensation trailed down his glasses, but his wide, watching, ever-so-observant eyes still showed some level of sheltering concern that August knew far too well from the man (well, _before _he became a 'man' here). The local psychiatrist gave a rather sympathetic nod. "Mr. Booth?" he said, the inquisitive tone implying that he was about to question or suggest something for August.

August had immediately switched his expression of completely surprise to that of a smug smirk, and Archie practically rolled his eyes with his own small little smile. "August," he corrected. He opened his mouth, except nothing came out – or rather, it appeared that Archie was trying to decide whether or not he wanted to say whatever was on his mind; _is there anything you want to talk about? Come on, Pinoke, I know when something's on your mind, you can tell me. Would you want Gepetto to see you so sad? _

Deep down, August really wanted to hear those words come out of his mouth, just like old times – the good old times.

But instead, Archie lifted his other gloved hand and placed it on August's shoulder, before he squeezed it gently. His smile grew wider, more open and friendlier. "I heard you were having lunch with Marco today," he said. "You probably shouldn't keep him waiting, I can walk you there."

It wasn't exactly what August had originally wanted, and even though the clouds did not break apart at that moment to reveal a golden sun beaming rays down upon them, August felt like that could very well happen at that exact moment. He felt himself grin back as he placed his own gloved hands over Archie's, nodding in approval. "You should join us, Archie. I'm sure Marco wouldn't mind a bit."

"Oh, he probably wouldn't," Archie admitted almost automatically. "But, if _you_ mind – "

"Absolutely not. We'll get to know each other a little more, if anything." August looked back up at the umbrella over his head. "Let me tell you, though...never did I think your lucky little black umbrella would fit me under it."

Here Archie actually scoffed. "Well, that sounds rather silly, as I'm quite sure..." And here Archie actually seemed to _skip _right next to August under the umbrella while still holding it. "It can fit us both. Always have faith, August."

And August took those words to heart more than his conscience could ever comprehend right now as they both continued to walk down the street, under that lucky black umbrella in the pouring rain.

* * *

_**Next Three Prompts: **__Flower pot, Slug, Jar of jam _


End file.
